


Friendly Fighting

by jdmcool



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be fair, he wasn’t always quite certain how he came to know Mycroft Holmes, but it was terribly fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendly Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> I blame tumblr and people and the internets for this study in immaturity and pettiness. I don't even like RPF but... Yeah. I blame tumblr.

To be fair, he wasn’t always quite certain how he came to know Mycroft Holmes, but it was terribly fun. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity, given that the apparently looked similar when he bothered to shaved and wasn’t wearing his glasses, two things that obviously distinguished them at the moment. Well, as similar as one could look to Mycroft, considering the man was a talking block of ice who seemed as though he would’ve been better fit in another time. Possibly the Victorian era. Or that whole Georgian one. Definitely something leading up to the First World War given that Mark was fairly certain that Mycroft might enjoy that.

Furrowing his brows as he watched Mycroft sip tea, he was definitely certain that the man should’ve existed during that whole world war era and be gone with by the second. Or maybe the Cold War. Mycroft would’ve definitely handled that well considering that he knew how to be cold when he wanted to. That probably wouldn’t have lasted as long if he’d been around then.

“Mark, there’s no such thing as time travel and I wouldn’t want to meet a younger version of myself, so the idea that the universe would explode, which your little show only says might happen, is unlikely,” Mycroft pointed in between sips of tea.

Mildly bothered, and making sure his face showed it given how much he hated when Mycroft read his mind, he committed himself to thinking of the first thing that would come to mind.

“It is a little show. A little show that makes little to no sense about a man in a box with a predilection for girls who are far too young for him.”

“He’s not having sex with them!”

“And he rarely does anything right. Like killing that one in the suit. The one who became PM? He seemed nice.”

“The Master wanted to kill all of humanity.”

“He also helped protect the world from those spider creatures and saved the Doctor at some point, yes?”

Mark shook his head. Not because Mycroft was wrong, but because the man, if he could be called that, didn’t like Doctor Who. Sure, he could talk a big game, but that was mostly because Mark had tried repeatedly to show him that the Doctor, no matter which Doctor, was positively brilliant. Somehow, likely out of petty... pettiness, Mycroft wound up liking all the wrong people.

“That doesn’t make him good. You can’t try to kill all of humanity and actually cause the Doctor’s death and then be good.”

“Everyone has a good side Mark, and for someone so barking that they hear drums, he did quite well. Certainly seemed like a better PM than most of the ones I know. I’d vote Saxon.”

“You would sign up to be a cyberman,” he shot back with disgust.

Thinking it over, Mycroft shook his head. “There’s logic in them, and while emotions are sometimes overrated, but I don’t think I’d want to be like them. I’d rather be like that chap with the blue light on his head.”

Slamming his head against the table, Mark winced slightly, although he tried to tell himself the pain he felt was mostly emotional, rather than physical since Mycroft definitely did not understand the point of Doctor Who.

“I heard a thud. Is something wrong?” Ian asked as he walked into the kitchen, likely looking concerned.

Unbothered, for that’s how Mark often chose to think of Mycroft, the man said, “Your husband is having his usual bout of Doctor Who problems.”

“I thought we agreed to avoid that topic, along with all horror films and most comedies. Especially the League.”

“Which is still bawdy and childish.”

“You’re bawdy and childish,” Mark shot back, which in hindsight, didn’t quite make for the stellar comeback he had being trying for.

Sighing, Ian patted his back and asked him, “What were you two talking about?”

“Mycroft thinks he’d rather be Davros than a Cyberman, which he would prefer to everything else.”

Looking toward Mycroft, Ian tentatively asked, “You do realize that the Daleks are evil, correct?”

“For the most part, but there’s a quaint sort of logic to how they behave. Even if they are essentially a rubbish bin with a plunger and cake mixer attached to it,” Mycroft said, sitting there in his usual posh way.

Sitting up, Mark looked at Ian, who was merely shrugging in that way that meant he was being understanding, the last thing that Mark wanted when Mycroft was being his typical icy self. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Well, you do tend to bring this upon yourself,” Ian said as though it was his fault Mycroft could read his mind.

“Don’t take his side. You’re my husband, meant to stand by me through all that rubbish and crap.”

Mycroft smiled to himself as he said, “I’ve never heard wedding vows recited quite so eloquently.”

Sighing, Ian nodded in agreement, finally on the right side of things. “Alright. Both of you are going to kiss and make up because you’re fighting over nothing for the sake of fighting.”

“I don’t see how this benefits anyone but you.”

“Who said I wanted more than that? Now, get on with it since I know you two have plenty in common.”

“A similar face hardly counts,” Mark pointed out as he leaned back in his chair.

“You both enjoy reading, history and James Bond.”

Which was true enough, but that was hardly enough to warrant anything more than a firm hand shake of truce making, let alone a whole ‘kiss and make up’ moment. And sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, Mark certainly wasn’t going to be the one to initiate anything.

“Mycroft, say something nice to Mark.”

Making a face as he pretended to rack his mind, Mycroft took a deep breath before sighing. “That thing you do on that children’s programme isn’t terrible.”

“That is not a compliment,” Mark scoffed.

“No it isn’t,” Ian readily agreed.

“Movie Pitches is quaint, even though you and your... mates are posing as the scum of the film industry,” Mycroft said, looking like if he had to force out another nice word he might just take his spoon and jam it into his eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And you look nice shaven.”

“You watch Horrible Histories,” Mark said, ignoring the fact that the last part was a bit vain, given that they apparently looked rather similar when Mark chose to be rid of his facial hair.

“It’s you being bawdy and childish that I can’t stand. The only likeable character on that... show of yours was Chinnery.”

“You like Mr. Chinnery?” Mark asked, suddenly feeling a lot more amicable towards the stiff politician.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft checked his watch as he stood up. “I like him as much as one can like an incompetent vet or you as a blonde. Neither of which are particularly pleasing for much more than a few minutes.”

“You’re actually rather miserable at this complimenting thing.”

“Duly noted. I will work on it in the future,” Mycroft said before kissing him, likely for Ian’s sake, since he thought it rather amusing.

Something about there being two of him and how nice he looked with a carbon copy of himself. Mark didn’t bother to ever over think the situation as he kissed Mycroft back. Merely cupped the man’s cheek, deepening the kiss the before messing up the man’s hair.

Drawing back with an annoyed sigh, Mycroft set about fixing his hair, staring at Ian as they had some strange silent conversation. Not that it mattered since Mark refused to feel bad about constantly freeing that fun little coma of hair Mycroft had. It was a perverse joy of his given the rather short state of his own hair.

“I’ll be going,” Mycroft muttered before giving Ian a quick kiss goodbye as well.

“Maybe next time you come around you two won’t behave like children.”

Scoffing as he pushed his glasses up his nose a bit more, Mark pretended to be clueless. “I’m nothing if not a gentleman to Mycroft. He’s like family. Well, bad example considering I wouldn’t kiss my family like that, but... you understand.”

“Mycroft—“

“I don’t kiss Sherlock in that manner either. He’s not my type. Not that I'm such a narcissist that a ginger version of myself is.”

“Bye Mycroft,” Ian said, giving up on getting his point across.

It was probably for the best, he decided as Mycroft headed out,  given that Mark knew what he and Mycroft had was strangely special. Sure, Mycroft may have had all the feelings of a Dalek, but they got along rather well and sometimes, fighting for the sake of fighting was the best way to show how much they cared. Mycroft was the Master to his Doctor, even Mycroft thought he was possibly the most pointless Doctor of them all.


End file.
